


Keep Your Eyes Wide

by deepimpact



Category: House M.D.
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28646169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepimpact/pseuds/deepimpact
Summary: There is no specific amount of time passed, no big event, no one thing that Wilson can pin as the catalyst.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 160





	Keep Your Eyes Wide

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an old livejournal writing challenge in which you take a sentence from every 10th page in a book as a prompt. Loosely based Pre-Series/Season 1.

**i. All these were mad thoughts, mad impulses.**

Wilson is drunk, far too drunk. He is getting married tomorrow, for the third time, and everyone keeps making jokes, laughing and saying _Third times the charm_. He wishes he was half as certain as they seem to be. There are a lot of people here, some people he hardly knows (friends of Julie, acquaintances) and others he knows too well (previous colleagues, a cousin, House) for a bachelor party with actual strippers.

He sets down his drink carefully, he’s at the point of intoxication where if he doesn’t do it carefully he might knock the whole thing over, and leans back in his chair.

The room is spinning a bit, and people are hollering as one of the strippers, naughty nurse outfit barely held together with Velcro on the sides, makes her way over to him. He’s not sure who requested the nurse theme, it’s wildly inappropriate and it gets him hot anyway, which means that it was probably House.

The stripper is pretty, long brown hair and blue eyes and soft curves and Wilson is drunk in the way that time blurs together and suddenly she is straddling his chair and only wearing pasties and red lace panties. Wilson thinks he’s probably too drunk to actually get a hard-on but doesn’t want to take any chances (especially in front of everyone he knows) so he tries to look past her instead of focusing on the scent of her perfume and the way her breasts sway when she moves her hips.

He shifts his gaze past the curve of her waist and his eyes land on House, sitting across the room. House is sitting alone, nursing what can only be his first or second bourbon because he can’t drink like he used to, not on the Vicodin, and he looks dramatically sober compared to how Wilson feels.

Their eyes meet and it takes the air out of his lungs, because House is looking at him with an open desire that Wilson has never seen from him. It’s a gaze full of heat and want and fire and maybe he’s looking at the stripper (who is literally in Wilson’s lap at this point) but Wilson knows better. The only reason he's caught House looking at him is because House thinks Wilson is too drunk to notice, or maybe he doesn't count on Wilson to remember.

They’re still looking at each other when Wilson leans forward in his chair, suddenly alive with the need to do something, _anything_. But then House stands up, abandoning his drink, and limps his way towards the bathroom, taking away all of Wilson’s options. He’s still got a lapful of paid affection, a wedding tomorrow, and he doesn’t think he’s sober enough to let his legs carry him anywhere. The stripper settles him back into the seat with a gentle push at his shoulders, and he lets himself sink into the plush cushion and close his eyes.

-

**ii. I think that I knew what he meant to do even before he did it, and I was waiting in my helplessness as if I’d been waiting for years.**

There is no specific amount of time passed, no big event, no one thing that Wilson can pin as the catalyst.

They’re standing on Wilson’s balcony, a crisp morning in February where winter hasn’t quite left. It’s early, the sun is starting to peak up over the buildings but none of House’s fellows have arrived yet. House has been quiet all morning, uncharacteristically silent in a way that makes Wilson nervous.

“Cameron likes me.” House says eventually, blunt and with no segue.

Wilson feels his eyebrows shoot up. “Huh. Like _like_ likes?”

“Yep,” House says, “I knew I shouldn’t have taken her to the Monster Truck thing.”

House shakes two Vicodin out in his palm and holds out his other hand towards Wilson, who hands over his coffee. House will dry swallow pills if he has to, but he's got no qualms about drinking from Wilson.

Wilson watches as House takes a quick pull from his coffee, throws his head back and swallows. House hands back the still warm cardboard cup and their fingers brush.

“Do you… like her?” It seems like the next important question Wilson should ask.

“Don’t be stupid,” House rolls his eyes. “I can’t imagine what she thinks she sees in me.”

“Yes, You’re completely unlovable.” Wilson agrees, then leans heavier into the sarcasm, “Very stupid, very boring, and unattractive in every way. I barely tolerate you.”

He's worried for a moment he’s gone too far, swung too low, but House, as always, seems to be incapable of taking personal offense.

“Wow. Is this what it’s like to have the moves put on me by the great Doctor Wilson?” House asks as Wilson takes another sip of coffee. “Am I to be your next extramarital conquest?”

“Ha, funny.” Wilson says dryly. It’s a nice morning, and for some inexplicable reason he adds, “Unlike Cameron, I know better than to try with you.”

House glances over at him, and Wilson can see the gears in his brain turning and analyzing, the way it does when he’s learned something new.

Suddenly, Wilson knows that this is it. That everything has come to a boiling point in this moment.

“Huh,” House says finally, “Maybe you should.”

It's an invitation and yet it’s House who moves, who leaves his cane resting against the railing and pushes off the balcony, pivots himself into Wilson’s space.

House is startlingly close. His eyes are vivid and bright and from this distance and Wilson can see the individual hairs of stubble around his mouth and jaw, spares a second to think about what they will feel like against his skin.

Wilson waits, patience settling in him like a heavy stone. It feels like he’s waited so long for this, even if he hasn’t always consciously known it. Now that he's here it seems like an unavoidable conclusion. He's content to let House come to him.

When House finally closes the distance and their lips brush for the first time, a soft meeting and parting that feels like embers igniting a flame, all Wilson can think is _finally._

_-_

**iii. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘You can’t turn back now.’**

Wilson likes to sit in on differentials from time to time. It’s not that he doesn’t have his own work to do, but it’s interesting to watch House’s team take stabs in the dark at what could be killing the patient of the week. Entertainment value aside, Wilson also prefers to be there to try to curtail any legally and morally inadvisable diagnostic initiatives before they get started.

It helps keep Wilson on his toes, brings up long forgotten knowledge of diseases and disorders he hasn’t thought of since med school. The team offers absolutely inane ideas, and House shoots them down one after the other, staring at the board.

Wilson always keeps up, and very rarely, he gets ahead.

“Myasthenia gravis,” he suggests. Everyone looks in his direction, but none of them carry the weight of House’s stare.

“It fits.” Cameron says finally, “If we take away the symptoms we caused, it explains everything else. We can redo the CT scan and give her some Tensilon.”

“Do it.” House responds without tearing his eyes from Wilson. The ducklings shift into motion, filtering out of the room and leaving them alone. 

Wilson knows that House thinks he’s smart. House wouldn’t be his friend if he didn’t, but there are moments when House makes Wilson _feel_ smart. The way House is looking at him right now makes this one of them. It’s disconcerting and thrilling, it’s intense and uncomfortable and Wilson lives for these moments, where House looks at him like he’s the only thing worth looking at.

“I’ve never been more attracted to you.” House says and there’s no cadence of a joke, just honest admission and gruffness in his voice that Wilson is learning to recognize that means he's thinking about sex.

“You’re welcome.” Wilson can’t help but smirk. He stands up and moves closer, still a plausibly deniable distance as required by an office of glass walls. “You can thank me later.”

“God, you’re hot,” House breathes, “Get out of my office before I rethink my policy on sex in the workplace.”

Wilson grins and turns on his heel. He retreats back to his own office and knows that anyone he passes in the hallway must be able to read his grin like an open book, but lately he cares less and less about public opinion.

-

**iv. This was New Orleans, a magical and magnificent place to live.**

The thing about these conventions is that they usually rotate to different cities each year. They try to pick up different groups of locals and give longstanding regulars new destinations to visit. There are, however, only so many cities worth visiting with convention centers, so when an oncology conference announces they’re returning to New Orleans it almost feels destined.

“You don’t _both_ need to go.” Cuddy had complained when reviewing their matching requests for time off.

“You’re right. Why do I need to know about cancer? I should just throw out my oncology books.” House said sarcastically, “If I find weird lumps, I’ll just call Wilson. I’m sure he’s not busy.”

They end up sharing a hotel room in an old historic hotel, a place with lots of character and creaky floorboards.

It turns out the mattresses creak too, as Wilson finds out later. He’s breathing heavy, sweat dripping down the nape of his neck from the humidity and exertion as he sinks himself down onto House's cock.

“You remember how we met?” Wilson asks as he adjusts, because New Orleans has made him sentimental.

“No,” House lies from under him, eyes closed but his fingers tighten on Wilson’s hips.

Wilson uses his thighs to raise himself up and back down, a smooth easy slide until House is buried to the hilt, and the mattress gives a groan of protest. Wilson can’t help but laugh. The bed is comically loud, and he knows by the way the corner of House’s lip twitches he finds it funny too.

“You’re going to give me a complex,” House protests, sliding his hands to grab at Wilson’s ass, trace one finger along where Wilson is stretched tight around him. 

“I hope not, I’m really worried about your ego.” Wilson flattens his hands on House's chest and grinds down again. House makes a soft noise at back of his throat and the mattress also seems to like that better, so he focuses on smaller movements, a steady rock of his hips and a slower pace that'll drive them both mad.

The air in the room is humid and House looks absolutely broken from his place in the pillows, shining with sweat, his face a combination of reverence and wanting and emotions neither of them will name out loud. Sex always makes House stupid.

“Jimmy,” He says, sliding one hand up to the hair at the back of Wilson's neck and pulling him down. He says Wilsons name again like a prayer, like it’s the only thing he knows, “Jimmy, _Jimmy_.”

“I know,” Wilson replies and leans forward to kiss him, even as he feels House start to shake and come apart under him, “I know.”

-

**v. They were convinced, on the best of grounds, of what we were.**

“Oh they’re definitely sleeping together,” Chase says, looking up from his textbook.

“You’re that sure? Sure enough to put money on it?” Cameron asks, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“Yeah. Aren’t you?”

“They’re definitely sleeping together,” Foreman chimes in, “The real question is are they _just_ sleeping together or do you think they’re dating?”

“They’re not dating. Wilson’s married,” Cameron defends, and she's over House, really. It just doesn't seem like something he would do.

“Wilsons been married. Three times.” Chase pauses, then adds conspiratorially, “I’ve heard he’s filed divorce paperwork again. The real question is who do you think-“

The glass door to the office opens and everyone shuts up as House enters, trailed closely by Wilson. House pauses in the doorway, squints at all three of them and their matching _oh shit_ expressions.

“Good morning.” Cameron is the one who speaks up, awkwardly.

House tilts his head like he’d debating how to attack this, and Cameron is ready to bite the bullet and apologize on behalf of all of them. Somebody needs to say something, but maybe House didn't hear them after all. Her worries dissipate when House's face smooths over and he says, “Good morning.”

“How was your trip?” Foreman asks diplomatically.

“Great! Wilson and I had a very romantic getaway filled with lots of hotel sex to celebrate his recent divorce.”

House’s delivery is absolutely deadpan, and Wilson covers his face with his hand. Cameron can't really bring herself to look at either of them.

“Sorry.” Chase offers, wincing, “It's just that there's a betting pool in oncology.”

“ _My_ oncology department?” Wilsons asks at the same time House says, “How much?”

“House.” Wilsons protests, and a cryptic look passes between them.

“Don’t worry, babe,” House says, “No amount of money could compare to the thrill of our secret love.”

Wilson sighs, but the set of his mouth betrays his faux annoyance. He stands up, “I’m going to my office. Get me when you’re going to lunch.”

“I miss him already,” House whines dramatically, even though Wilson is halfway down the hall. There’s a split second of something in his eyes, a look reserved only for Wilson, before his usual mask of indifference is back in place.

“Alright, kids,” House turns around and uncaps his dry erase marker with a loud snap, “Who’s dying today?”

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes from _Interview With A Vampire. _Can't believe I'm fifteen years late to this fandom but what can you do!__


End file.
